


all the power in me moves

by vintaged



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), M/M, finished my rewatch and im SUFFERING, just me being emotional about this gay little show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29566920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintaged/pseuds/vintaged
Summary: The first kiss is magic, plain and simple.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 69





	all the power in me moves

_The first kiss is magic, plain and simple._

Merlin likes his routine.

Mondays he goes grocery shopping. He loves the Korean mart downtown, and keeps telling himself he’s going to make red bean sweetbuns of his own -eventually. On Tuesdays Merlin returns library books, stops at the pub on the way home for a pint and sits in a corner for a while to read. An hour and a half, usually. 

Wednesdays and Thursdays are spent organizing and duplicating his journals; he knows he should be digitizing them, that’s the “future.” But Merlin’s seen the future before, so he figures he’ll wait it out and see how it fares. Right now he’s content to copy his oldest entries into new books, and see how long the internet holds out. 

(He gives it a century, maybe a century and a half. It’s revolutionary, certainly, but it’s not magic.)

Fridays he spends cooking for the week. Merlin likes cooking, now; god knows he’s had long enough to learn. He lets the neighborhood cat in for scraps and checks that the garbage cans are closed tight. (Damn raccoons.)

By 7:30 he’s fallen asleep in his armchair; around one or two in the morning he’ll stir, and shuffle off to bed.

_It’s late; the coronation is over, and Arthur is stumbling. It’s a miracle they even make it to his chambers, but Merlin is nothing if not dedicated._

  
  


On weekends he takes the 5:30 bus to the lake, just outside of Carmarthan. If he feels heavier today, Merlin doubts he has the willpower to overcome the routine; so he doesn’t fight it, just follows the motions. It’s been this way for years, and Merlin has no intention of breaking tradition now; his flat has remained the same for so long, the routine’s stuck to his fingers. If he changed now, god knows what would happen.

Of course there was a time when Merlin considered traveling while he waited for Arthur. Back when he thought the wait would only be a few years, a decade at most -but of course destiny would never be that kind to him. If he strays too far from Albion, his magic will not follow; his vision blurs as the distance increases, compounded by that _pull_ , deep in his stomach. Nauseating and persistent, until Merlin turns back.

(And he always turns back.)

The bus route leads all the way to the lake, but Merlin always gets off a few stops early. He commends the driver on such a smooth ride before he adds that he’ll get off here, thank you very much. The bus driver will look at him in confusion, ask him if he’s sure, and Merlin will say _yes_ as politely as possible, because he knows this scene will play out again next Saturday, the driver none the wiser. No one remembers the old man in the tattered blue coat -Merlin’s made sure of that. He’s gotten good at the kind of magic that makes people forget him.

  
  


_It’s been a heavy day. A morning prayer followed by a solemn service, followed by a vigil that lights up every window of the castle, the glow so strong it can be seen from the fields. Merlin would call it beautiful, if he wasn’t so busy pushing Arthur up the steps. It was bad enough that the bread at dinner was too dry, the wine too free; and now Merlin, for all his sympathy, can’t quite breathe for the effort of moving Arthur towards his bed._

In the morning mist, yawning, newspaper tucked under his arm, Merlin makes his way off the road, towards the lake. The earth is wet under his feet, but there’s something quite lovely about waterproof boots that he just _knows_ Arthur would enjoy. On the other hand, Arthur would hate being up this early, because he’s spoiled rotten in every single life -probably hasn’t ever seen a proper sunrise. One day Merlin is going to introduce him to an alarm clock, and Arthur is going to _hate it_. 

About halfway down the last hill, his left knee starts to ache. A slow, steady throb, right on time; and Merlin pauses for a moment to let the pain settle, catch his breath. It’s an odd feeling, this sense of getting older. Of his body finally giving up; these days he’s settled into the bones of an old man, because it’s easier than pretending to be anything other than worn through. He’s already exhausted, feels older than he could ever look. Merlin tells himself his body is just following his mind, after all, and there’s no harm in that. Not now.

By the time Merlin reaches the shore, the grass under his boots has bled to stone, worn smooth from centuries of tides. He crouches at the lip of the lake, and immediately feels the cold bloom of water on his knees. He hums, quietly, a little bit mad. A little bit careless. See here, just in front of him -that used to be Arthur’s throne. Merlin runs his fingers over the wet rock; he used to lean on the ornate woodwork of that seat, in between appointments, and poke fun at Arthur. 

(For a time he had a running joke that Arthur was getting a bit thin on top, and gods if that wasn’t the funniest thing back then.)

The ache in his knees has spread to his chest, and Merlin allows himself a moment to doubt; only one, of course. He can’t afford to wallow in fear that this is all for nothing -will not allow himself to sink into the belief that Kilgarrah was only trying to comfort him; that Albion’s time of need passed long ago. That he will never see Arthur again, because why on _earth_ would a king return for his servant, after all?

(Love doesn’t hold out like that, no matter what the stories say. Love doesn’t remember every hitch of breath, let alone every unfinished promise.)

The moment passes. It always does.

_They make it to Arthur’s chambers just as Merlin’s strength gives out. He can feel his legs burning with exhaustion, and is tempted, for a moment, to just slump to the floor and drag Arthur down with him. Instead he shoves the door open and pushes Arthur ahead, towards the dining table, so he can grip at one of the chairs. At the far end of the room that magnificent four poster bed rears, warm and inviting and oceans away. The blankets are folded just so, and Merlin knows that several warming stones rest under the mattress. On the bedside table is a small jug of flowers, probably placed by Gwen, but if they make it through the night it will be a miracle. Merlin can barely take care of Arthur, let alone a_ plant _._

_At least a plant won’t talk back._

_He leaves Arthur leaning on one of the dining chairs and shuffles around the room, turning down the bed, fluffing the pillows. He knows, from the heat on the back of his neck, that Arthur is watching him intently; and that realization alone is enough to make his chest tighten, which Merlin really can’t afford. It’s been a painful enough day already, watching Arthur move away from him, and Merlin can’t take much more. But he knows, like he knows everything when it comes to Arthur, that the newly-crowned king has something to say. So he takes his time readying Arthur’s sleepclothes and lighting the candles, steadies his breath in time to the folds of cloth and flick of taper. And so when Arthur finally says “Wait,” in a voice that rasps across his ears, Merlin is prepared._

  
  


Destiny is a funny thing, Merlin thinks, as he drops his newspaper in exchange for an oddly shaped stone by his boot. Destiny never asked _him_ how he’d feel, watching the world spin faster and faster, never asked him if he’d be interested in burying a thousand kings and queens knowing no one would remember them. It was terribly rude, in fact. He crooks his hand back to study this particular stone, stained black with lake water. It’s smooth and still in his palm, of course, but it hums in his head like magic always does, somewhat vexed with him. That’s… unusual. Curious, Merlin doesn’t drop it, much as he wants to. That sense of annoyance could _mean_ something, after all; and there’s a prick of heat in his belly, a pang in his chest, at the thought. Even after all this time, Merlin knows, anything could be a signal; _anything_ could be a sign.

But nothing happens, save the hum in his ears.

  
  


_“My lord?” Merlin says carefully, turning. He tries to use the phrase sparingly, lest Arthur’s head get too big, but now… now he’s_ king _, and. Well. After today, the divide between them will deepen. It has to. And if that truth hurts Merlin, so be it; it’s not his destiny to be coddled, to chase Arthur around the castle forever and be privy to his every thought._

  
  


In a sudden rush of anger, Merlin balls his fist around the rock and squeezes. After a moment his fingers close in on themselves, and he unfurls them to allow a small cluster of sparks to trickle upwards. They float in the air for a moment, drawn by some otherworldly conception of gravity, before colliding with Merlin’s warm exhales and gently disintegrating. Merlin feels the heat in his belly peter out; this isn’t the first time magic has disappointed him, and it certainly won’t be the last. After everything, there is magic, and after everything, there will be Merlin. He’s struck by the feeling that this should make a lot more sense than it does. Should hurt a lot less by now.

  
  


_“It’s my destiny, to be king.” Arthur says, slowly, like he’s testing out the words for the first time. There’s a new heaviness to the tone, thicker than the slur of alcohol. Sorrow, probably. So he’s not drunk, then, Merlin realizes with a prickle of annoyance. He’s just lazy._

_But when Arthur braces his hand on the table and rubs at his chin, staring holes into the table, it’s the closest he’s ever come to looking regal._

_“It’s_ been _my destiny, all my life,” he adds after a moment, voice tight. “Ever since I was a boy, I knew this day would come.” He flicks his eyes up to Merlin’s, and there is a moment where a child, not a king, is looking back at him. Wide-eyed and confused. But it’s a fleeting expression, and then Arthur raises an eyebrow; he stretches an arm out, wiggling his fingers impatiently, and Merlin swallows a groan of annoyance. Of course. Arthur’s regal enough to ruminate on his coronation, but not enough to remove his cloak. Merlin grits his teeth._

_He makes sure to take his time setting the candle on the dresser before crossing the room, hands extended early to land on the clasps at Arthur’s shoulders. He carefully loops his fingers under the expensive metalwork, engraved with a small sun, and unclips the cloth. He pretends he misses the sting as his fingers catch on the chainmail underneath. The way Arthur’s breath hitches at the touch._

_And he would pretend that his pulse didn’t quicken, except Arthur’s hand is at his wrist, stopping him from removing the clasp. The air is suddenly very, very heavy. If Merlin didn’t know better, he’d lean into the touch; but he’s learned better,_ must _learn better, if Arthur is to be king. He has to let go._

_They stand there for a long moment._

  
  


Merlin makes to stand, reaching for the newspaper. It’s wet now, of course. Ink bleeds from the soggy paper onto his fingers as he plucks it from the rocks. And that’s fine, it doesn’t much matter -he’ll dry it eventually.

But the hum hasn’t left his ears yet, which is odd.

_Arthur’s fingers are gentle, rubbing slow circles around Merlin’s wrist bone. He seems suddenly focused on the skin there, taut at the joint and shadowed by candlelight. The index and middle finger stretch out, until their hands are loosely entwined. Easily, comfortably._

_It’s not the first time this has happened, far from it -but Merlin is struck by the realization that it may be the last. By tomorrow, he’ll probably be dismissed. Sent on his way, into some unassuming role where he can’t protect Arthur anymore._

_The thought makes his chest ache. Merlin doesn’t dare breathe, keeps his gaze focused on the door just beyond Arthur’s ear. The pulse beating against his thumb picks up, and Merlin can feel his own blood rush to match it._

_Dammit. Arthur must have felt the shift, because his gaze follows Merlin’s pulse, flicks to their tangled fingers. Merlin is suddenly overwhelmed with a panicked desire to run, as far and as fast as he can._

Merlin casts his gaze around, following the insistent thrum. He already crushed the magic, of course he did; but _still_. There, in the shallows, the susurration calls to him.

With a sigh, he rises, feels the crack as his bones release all the tension from crouching. He’d groan, if he wasn’t so damn annoyed. Can’t this lake just leave him in peace, for once?

(Of course not. Arthur would never leave him.)

The hum isn’t too far, so Merlin doesn’t bother to be careful as he steps into the lake to retrieve the magic. Icy water splashes up his sleeve as he plunges an open hand into the shallows and feels around for the source of the hum. In the back of his mind, Merlin wonders again if this is _supposed_ to happen, but banishes the thought almost instantly. He’s too old to ask questions, and quite honestly too old to care. 

After a moment of blind scrabbling his fingers close around the stone, warm with magic. He shivers as the heat needles up his wrist; it dries the coat cuffs, and then sparks at his arm. Insistent and sharp, like a child unexpectedly roused from a nap. It’s almost endearing, the way the magic dissipates; like it’s irritated with him, somehow.

_After everything_ , Merlin says to himself, to calm his heart, _there is magic_. At least there’s something.

Maybe one day there will be Arthur, too. But not today.

Merlin turns away from the lake and tucks the newspaper under his arm. It’s been almost twenty minutes now, and he can’t have himself imagining things that aren’t there. Merlin’s made it this far on blind faith, why stop now? He has chores to start. Time to go.

He only makes it a few steps when the hum is beating in his head again. And this time it’s _loud_.

_Arthur pauses. The muscles in his neck grow taught and he looks at the ground, as if steeling himself against some unwelcome emotion. He’s going to say something -he’s finally going to send Merlin away. Merlin wishes he could pull away, but he can’t. He just stays, frozen in Arthur’s grasp like a deer before a hunter; this is too intimate, it’s too close, and if Arthur goes on like this he’s going to break Merlin’s heart. He’s an honorable king, but he’s careless like that._

_And then Arthur’s meeting his eyes, his jaw set. Teeth tight._

_“I just thought….” his voice is rough. Strained. “I thought I’d be more prepared.”_

_And Merlin melts. It takes everything he has to stay still, marked against the loop of Arthur’s fingers._

_“Indeed, my lord.” He manages after a moment. The words catch on the sudden lump in his throat. “But you’re much more prepared than you think. You’ve been practicing for a long time, longer than you know.”_

_Arthur frowns. His hand tightens at Merlin’s wrist, and he stops fiddling with the leather ties._

_A pause. Then:_

_“Do you ever wonder, what your destiny is?” Again with that raw, broken tone._

_“To be by your side,” Merlin says immediately. It takes everything he has not to roll his eyes at the question. Arthur knows the answer; the whole kingdom knows at this point, he’s sure._

  
  


Merlin casts his gaze further, following the hum in his skull, the queasy prick of hope rising in his throat -and there’s another stone a few paces ahead of him, though he can’t see it for the lake stretched out before him. The magic pulses in Merlin’s ears, not angry so much as adamant. There’s a tugging sensation in his gut. Gently beckoning him onward, closer to the water.

 _Come_.

Merlin suddenly feels hot with shame at his dress, the unkempt beard and shoddy jacket. Not _today_ , of all days.

It _can’t_ be.

(He’s not ready.)

_Arthur is quiet for a moment, like he’s considering the honesty of Merlin’s answer. He presses his thumb into the inside of Merlins wrist, hard. He nods._

_“Good,” he says firmly. “Because I’m king now, with important duties. And I really don’t have time to train another manservant.”_

_A warmth blooms in Merlin’s chest at that. Of course nothing is going to change; once again, he chastises himself, he’s gone and underestimated Arthur. He’d be embarrassed, if it didn’t make so much sense. The damn man must really enjoy subverting his expectations; there’s a familiar quirk at his lips that proves it._

_“Mmm, all those royal dinners you have to attend,” Merlin manages after a moment, fighting the urge to grin. “All those toasts you have to give.”_

_“They’re important,” protests Arthur. Merlin squints at him disbelievingly._

_“Oh, of_ course _.”_

  
  


It occurs to him, in some offhand “this-can’t-be-happening” way, that even if this isn’t the sign he’s been waiting for, Merlin’s never been one to turn down a cry for help. Because that’s what this must be, the heat tugging at his limbs, insistent and almost desperate, now.

(Right?)

A part of him bemoans what he’s about to do, because it’s barely 6:30 and it’s _so cold out_ already. He drops his newspaper at the shore, shakes his hat off too. Grits his teeth and sloughs forward into the icy water, and already Merlin’s careless because two steps in, he’s soaked his pants, dripped bits of muck into his boots. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Merlin wonders if maybe he really _has_ gone mad, after everything. Maybe there isn’t magic so much as exhaustion, a breaking point-

  
  


_They pause, then; everything is settled. The moment is over._

_Or at least. It should be. But Arthur doesn’t remove his hand from Merlin’s; just exhales. Almost shaky, like he’s not quite done speaking, and Merlin is nothing if not patient. So he waits._

  
  


Like a thousand bees whirring in his brain, shrieking at him, louder and louder. Not screaming, not begging -but shouting all the same, vying for his attention. Merlin splashes forward. He can feel his movements becoming reckless, sloppy, bogged down by lakewater and that damned coat. Stretches his hands out, clawing at the riled water for the source of the rebellious magic. He’s abruptly reminded of a swim he took, a long time ago, scrabbling for Arthur’s drowning body. Whatever happened that day? He can’t remember, it’s too loud-

His head is pounding.

_Merlin isn’t sure when they move, because it could be a heartbeat, or it could be a thousand hours later. All he remembers, afterwards, is that it happens. And he’s not sure who exactly to blame._

_It could be the drink that causes Arthur to look at him like that, heavy-lidded eyes blown in the low light. It could be exhaustion that drives him forward, opening his grip around Merlin's wrist so his palm can curve at the forearm, his elbow. It could be a lot of things, Merlin thinks vaguely, as Arthur’s grip tightens on his sleeve, as he’s pulled in._

  
  
  


The humming reaches a crescendo in his ears; it’s vibrating throughout his body, now, like an avalanche, fogged out with noise and grit and-

He’s waist deep in the water, now. His head is throbbing, lungs on fire-

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut.

  
  


_It could be a dream, how slowly they come together. How carefully Arthur’s mouth moves over his, all hesitation and sour wine._

  
  


And then the humming is gone. The screaming in his ears so loud Merlin can’t breathe is abruptly cut off at the quick, and he’s left trembling, cold and shocked, in the middle of the lake, his coat spread out behind him like a dark stain.

Silence.

The air is heavy, and Merlin is reeling, the ache in his head unwilling to recede quite so fast. He doesn’t open his eyes, _can’t_.

(He’s not ready.)

A loud splash echoes just behind him. Merlin is frozen; if he turns, he’s going to have to face some poor sot out on their morning walk, thinking he’s lost his marbles; and the encroaching thought of someone trying to rescue an old man waist deep in a freezing lake, mumbling to himself, hurts too much to consider. He debates wading forward, dissolving into the water, just so that he won’t have to deal with the reality of… whatever _this_ is about to become.

_It could be a lot of things, Merlin considers, as he smiles into Arthur’s mouth, presses back, fingers curled in the thick fabric of his cloak. But._

Another splash echoes, followed by another. Closer than the first, almost frantic. Merlin doesn’t move.

But there- that heat in his belly has returned. He can feel the hum of magic again, low and determined, but this time it isn’t inside his head. It’s somewhere just behind him, and it’s growing.

Merlin sighs and straightens his shoulders. Makes to turn around, at last.

(Because Merlin really can’t give up, can he?)

And there’s a voice just over his shoulder, raw with disuse, but so familiar it burns against the inside of his mouth. 

_(It feels like magic.)_

All at once Merlin is just twenty again, standing at the entrance to a crowded castle. A boy is watching him from the front steps, clad in thick silver chainmail and a dragon crest. He has bright blue eyes, and he is smiling.

After everything, there is-

“ _Merlin_.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> the last merlin fic i wrote was in 2013, when i was a teenager. last week i finished my rewatch, and this happened. it's wild to me how everything changes, and nothing changes???
> 
> thank u for reading !xoxo
> 
> feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](https://vintagedowl.tumblr.com/) !


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